


Power and Control

by aizawashouta



Series: stormy waters [an ushioi collection] [6]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety, Ceiling mirror, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mirror Sex, Post-Time Skip, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29586378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aizawashouta/pseuds/aizawashouta
Summary: “Deeper,” Ushijima finally caves, driven half-mad by the smooth slide of Oikawa’s girth against his inner walls and gentle fingers teasing at his balls in featherlight touches.“Fuck me deeper.”He wants to debauch him. He wants to see Ushijima quiver and fold like a petal in the palm of his hand, wants to corrupt Ushijima’s impeccable composure and make profanity spill from those thin, polite lips that had stretched around his cock so prettily less than half an hour ago.“That's right. Now be good and sayplease.”
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Series: stormy waters [an ushioi collection] [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664299
Comments: 5
Kudos: 84
Collections: Play Ball Zine Collection





	Power and Control

**Author's Note:**

> Rest assured that even after months of radio silence, Ushioi continue to live in my head rent free, so here's some new fic. Finally. I originally wrote this one for Play Ball Zine, a HQ NSFW Anthology.

There are two things Oikawa hadn’t expected to learn about Ushijima Wakatoshi in the early stages of their relationship—or ever, if he was being completely honest with himself.

For one, Ushijima was as impatient as he is hard-working—silently so, the emotion growing rampant where it festers underneath the surface until, occasionally, it threatens to boil over all at once. 

Even Ushijima’s rare bouts of frustration were quiet.

He might pass on soaking in the bath, sitting comfortably between Oikawa’s legs and letting him scrub the stress of the day from those broad, dependable shoulders, to sulk in their bedroom or putter around on the balcony with metaphorical storm clouds hanging over his head.

Sometimes Oikawa wonders if his hot-headed teenage self would have resented Ushijima a little less, had he taken into consideration that playing volleyball on Ushijima’s level from such a young age came with its own unique set of pressures and expectations. Once he’d come to know Ushijima—actually  _ know _ him, and better than probably anyone else, at that—he’d realized that, calm and confident facade aside, Ushijima wasn’t entirely unaffected by his own personal failures, as few and far between as they may occur.

He might not talk about it in so many words, yet Oikawa had quickly become an expert at reading in between the lines, at figuring out when to quit prodding and which one of Ushijima’s sullen little frowns to smooth out first. 

The one on his forehead is where he would start, then let his lips linger between the stern lines of Ushijima’s brows before kissing the corners of his mouth, fingers digging into the small of his back to slowly ease out the tension.

However, as it had turned out one late, rainy night in December when he’d had Ushijima writhing on his knees with his wrists bound tightly behind his back and his face pressed into the mattress by one of Oikawa’s hands at the nape of his neck,  _ some days _ Ushijima doesn’t want gentle. 

Some days, he doesn’t want to take the lead, doesn’t want to be strong, indomitable, in control.

Some days, Ushijima wants something else.

The second thing Oikawa discovered quite surprisingly, the first time he’d demanded Ushijima stay the night at his old, cramped apartment: Ushijima had a tendency to hide himself when he took Oikawa’s cock. 

He wasn’t sure if it was on instinct or by design, but more often than not, those hooded golden eyes Oikawa had learned to love so much would disappear behind the cover of Ushijima’s large forearm, his groans and soft sighs of pleasure muffled by a pillow that Ushijima would bury his face into until Oikawa grabs him by the jaw and forces him to meet his hungry gaze as he gives it to him slow and hard.

Like tonight.

“I said eyes on me when I fuck your whore hole,” he chides sweetly, reaching around Ushijima’s middle to slap his cock where it hangs heavy and aching between his thighs. Once. Twice. Three times, the strong, slender fingers of his free hand slipping underneath the soft leather of Ushijima’s collar and tugging just enough to coax a strangled gasp from Ushijima’s lips. They’re bitten red, spit-slick, still swollen from sucking Oikawa off against the wall of the genkan with a feverish sheen glazing his eyes and his knees scraping against the floorboards through his tracksuit.

_ “Help me,” _ Ushijima had murmured into the silky strands of Oikawa’s hair, the words barely above a whisper, and breathed in his scent as trembling fingers had clumsily worked open Oikawa’s fly. 

He had asked, not begged—Ushijima never did.

Oikawa, who’d been waiting for Ushijima to crack underneath the weight of his own stubborn pride for the better half of the past week, would have him pleading soon enough.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen at practice?” he’d tried, knowing full well that it wouldn’t be that easy to get Ushijima to speak. For now, though, it would do.

“Yes.  _ No.  _ Tooru, will you just—”

He’d felt his gaze harden at the sight of the frustrated crease growing between Ushijima’s brows, swatting Ushijima’s hand away and making quick work of his pants and briefs. A hot shiver had run down his spine when his half hard length had sprung free against Ushijima’s eager tongue.

“I know.”

Ushijima’s short hair had fallen into his face then, keeping his expression hidden from view, and it would still do so now if Oikawa wasn’t carding his fingers through it—a gentle, calming touch; the faintest scrape of neatly trimmed nails against Ushijima’s scalp—stroking it, grabbing a fistful of it and yanking back Ushijima’s head with no prior warning.

Now, their eyes meet in the large mirror overhead, where its silvery surface stretches across the ceiling above their king-sized bed, stormy gold boring into bright hazel swallowed up by the pitch-black of Oikawa’s dilated pupils.

It’s unlike Ushijima to be this obstinate when they’re like this: Ushijima on his hands and knees, rutting back on Oikawa’s cock as he’s having string after string of raspy groans punched out of him with every sharp snap of Oikawa’s hips; Oikawa digging his fingertips into Ushijima’s thighs so hard they’ll leave marks, branding him, mesmerized by the way Ushijima’s raw power bends to his will—second to none, equal to Oikawa’s alone. 

On the other hand, Oikawa has come to understand quite well that there’s a difference between indulging Ushijima’s desire to be held down and subjugated, and demanding that he  _ watch _ himself surrender, legs spread wide and back curved into a long, deep arch. 

“Easy,” he whispers against the shell of Ushijima’s ear as a low growl builds in the back of Ushijima’s throat and he tries to break free from Oikawa’s iron grip on his hair. “It’s okay, you know? That you want this. That you want me to put you in your place.”

Underneath him, Ushijima’s entire body shivers with need. Oikawa feels his smile sharpen around the edges, his tongue slowly tracing a line from Ushijima’s earlobe all the way up to the sensitive tip. The moment his teeth sink into the flushed skin and tug, Ushijima comes apart at the seams.

He clenches down hard around Oikawa’s pounding cock, his hole tight and slick, dripping with cum, and the soft insides of his thighs a mess littered in scratches and bruises the size of Oikawa’s fingertips. There’s a telltale tremble shuddering through Ushijima’s muscular arms and legs that are barely holding him upright against Oikawa’s weight, the pressure of Oikawa’s chest against his back, the momentum of Oikawa’s hips rolling against his own in slow, wet slaps.

The pace he’s set is languid, his thrusts deliberately shallow. It’s not what Ushijima is looking for—they both know it isn’t—but Oikawa has every intention of grating on Ushijima’s sanity until he cries for it.

Up in the mirror dark hazy eyes flicker towards Oikawa’s reflection as Ushijima watches himself push out his ass for Oikawa like a bitch in heat.

“Deeper,” Ushijima finally caves, driven half-mad by the smooth slide of Oikawa’s girth against his inner walls and gentle fingers teasing at his balls in featherlight touches. _ “Fuck me deeper.” _

“That’s right.” Oikawa shushes Ushijima’s quiet hiss when he pulls out of him entirely, only to roughly shove Ushijima onto his back barely a moment later and press his swollen cockhead against Ushijima’s gaping rim.

He wants to debauch him. He wants to see Ushijima quiver and fold like a petal in the palm of his hand, wants to corrupt Ushijima’s impeccable composure and make profanity spill from those thin, polite lips that had stretched around his length so prettily less than half an hour ago.

“Now be good and say  _ please _ .”

For a long moment, Ushijima glares up at him with whatever fight, whatever worthless pride he’s got left in him. Then, clenching his jaw in silent defeat:

“Please…”

Maybe it’s the broken rasp in Ushijima’s deep baritone, or the way Ushijima’s half-lidded eyes never leave Oikawa’s in the mirror overhead while he hooks his fingers around his knee to pull it up and to the side, presenting himself so shamelessly that it has electricity crackling up Oikawa’s spine. The sight of Ushijima—it goes straight to his head, straight to his cock, straight to the darkest corners of his possessive heart.

Ushijima heaves out a choked sob when Oikawa seizes his hips in a bruising grip and yanks them into his lap, entering Ushijima’s quaking body in one quick, forceful stroke aimed straight for his neglected prostate. Oikawa holds himself there, the tip of his cock milking the sore bundle of nerves until tears spring from the corners of Ushijima’s clouded eyes, his pupils dilating, his breathing going short and erratic.

“You like this,” Oikawa pants triumphantly between a handful of sloppy kisses he steals from Ushijima’s willing mouth. “God, you’re such a dirty little— _ Hey— _ ”

Catching Ushijima’s wrist at the last second, he kisses him there too before pinning it to the mattress beside Ushijima’s head, keeping him from further wiping at his tears with the back of his hand.

“It suits you… Leave them until I’m done with you.”

Then, finally, Oikawa decides that he is starting to grow tired of toying with his lover. 

As much as he tends to enjoy dragging out their little sessions to the point when either of them can hardly bear it for another minute, part of him longs to make quick work of Ushijima tonight—a sweet reminder of Ushijima’s defenselessness at Oikawa’s hands.

Ushijima’s mouth goes slack once Oikawa begins to ravish him in earnest; lips parted and kissed red, gaze distant, fixated on the lewd image of Oikawa’s cock pounding his abused hole, body jolting on the mattress with the power of each one of Oikawa’s ruthless thrusts. 

He’s staring openly now, Oikawa can’t help but notice. Forgotten is his pride, at times as stubborn as Oikawa’s own, and with it his inhibitions, laying bare weeks of pent-up longing that Oikawa knows Ushijima would barely allow himself to express even if he knew how.

Oikawa watches with no small amount of satisfaction as each muscle in Ushijima’s body pulls taut, accompanied by a weak, strangled sound—half moan, half whimper—and Ushijima’s lower back arches off the mattress, chasing relief, his legs spasming around Oikawa’s waist, his toes curling.

It’s then that Oikawa’s fingers, long and pale and cruel, fall away from Ushijima’s side, pausing their idle caressing, and wrap around the thick base of Ushijima’s pulsing cock to cut off his release.

Predictably, those beautiful golden eyes blow wide, snapping out of their trance and tearing away from the mirror’s reflection to look at Oikawa with a mixture of shock, betrayal and something else just this side of pain. 

(Perhaps, if Oikawa were a better person, or if he didn’t know Ushijima secretly got off on it, he wouldn’t be leering down at him like a shark its prey.)

“Why—”

“Isn’t there something you’re forgetting?” Oikawa taps his finger against his cheek as if deep in thought, his other hand never loosening its firm grip on Ushijima’s cock, staving off his orgasm without ever easing his assault on Ushijima’s aching prostate. 

Despite the blatant despair written across Ushijima’s flushed, handsome features, Oikawa receives nothing more than a blank stare in response.

“My question from earlier… I still haven’t gotten my answer. You know how much I hate to be kept waiting, love.”

Oikawa accentuates the poorly veiled threat with a particularly well-aimed thrust, so deep it catches Ushijima off guard long enough for a broken scream to escape his lips where they’d been pressed shut into a thin, tight line. 

Even so, Ushijima endures it.

_ Still being difficult, I see.  _

_ Fine by me. _

If anything, Oikawa has never shied away from a challenge—quite the contrary. He welcomes it.

To Ushijima’s credit, he lasts quite a bit longer than Oikawa had expected he would, breathlessly heaving large gulps of air into his burning lungs before skillful fingers close around his windpipe again and again and again. Oikawa senses his own orgasm building low in his stomach, a surge of white hot pleasure threatening to seize control of his body and boil over the edges—too soon, it’s too soon, he can’t—

But he does, feels his bright hazel eyes rolling back inside his head as the soft, wet, overwhelming clench of Ushijima’s hole makes his balls tighten almost painfully, painting Ushijima’s insides with load after hot load of his seed. 

Between his spread thighs, Ushijima is spilling over with it; white and sticky against his sun-kissed skin. There seems to be no end to it, nor is there to Ushijima’s infuriating determination to take his issues to the grave—

Or so it seems until Oikawa instinctively eases the pressure on Ushijima’s throat and Ushijima blurts,  _ “I’m afraid of losing my starting position for the Tokyo Olympics,” _ without meeting Oikawa’s borderline feverish stare.

Even though, admittedly, Oikawa had figured that Ushijima’s exceptionally sour mood must have come down to something along those lines, the words still sound ridiculous to his ears, coming from a hunk of a man like Ushijima, who was born to rule the court and grind his opponents into the dust; all confidence, earthshaking power and raw, intimidating athleticism. A man whose mere presence makes the blood in Oikawa’s veins tingle and has lesser men cowering in fear of their inevitable demise.

And yet, clearly this isn’t the time for fond ridicule, or the kind of merciless scolding demanded by such outrageous foolery—not when Ushijima is still waiting obediently for Oikawa to allow him to come, looking a split second away from slipping into unconsciousness.

“You’ve been good,” Oikawa breathes against the corner of Ushijima’s mouth before he kisses him on the lips, light and gentle, swallowing up his shallow gasps.

“Come for me…”

He doesn’t expect large, rough palms to claw their way up his spine, clipped nails to dig into his shoulder blades and pull him into a bone-crushing embrace with unconcealed urgency as he feels thick spurts of cum splattering across both of their chests. Ushijima tries to kiss him, clumsily so, panting mindlessly into Oikawa’s mouth with their foreheads pressed together so hard it would hurt if Oikawa wasn’t running high on a fresh wave of adrenaline each time Ushijima whispers his name like a prayer.

Oikawa praises him through it, hushes Ushijima’s weak protests with appeasing pecks and a fingertip pressed to Ushijima’s lips in silent warning as he carefully eases his cock out of Ushijima’s hole, only barely suppressing a hiss of displeasure at the sensation.

Years ago, he may have fallen for it, too busy gloating over the fact that Ushijima Wakatoshi wanted him badly enough to beg him to warm his cock after allowing Oikawa to pick him apart for hours on end. Today, Oikawa isn’t willing to run the risk of Ushijima slowly dozing off on him in his post-orgasm haze.

He reluctantly rolls off of Ushijima, swallowing heavily when Ushijima’s fingers catch his own hardly a couple steps towards their en suite bathroom.

“I’ll be just a second,” Oikawa reassures, taken aback by the vulnerability of the gesture.

After toweling himself down in more of a rush than he would like to admit, Oikawa returns to the bedroom, where he finds Ushijima rigidly staring at the mirror reflecting the mess they’d made of the room, the sheets, every inch of his sculpted body.

Not quite sure of the nature of Ushijima’s brooding, he decides to climb onto the bed to straddle Ushijima’s waist, effectively blocking his line of sight in exchange for a better view.

At first, Oikawa works in silence. His fingers are gentle as they unclasp Ushijima’s collar and gentler when they trace the thin strip of pink skin that is revealed underneath. He takes his time lightly scrubbing the damp towel he brought up and down Ushijima’s pecs before eventually moving on to his stomach and thighs, drinking up the low, content rumble in Ushijima’s chest, accompanied by quiet sighs that Oikawa wants to kiss straight out of his mouth.

Instead, he allows himself to say what he’s been dying to get through Ushijima’s thick skull for weeks.

“I know this may be quite the concept for you to wrap your head around, but prodigy or not, you’re not a machine,” Oikawa scoffs, dragging the tip of his pointer finger down the middle of Ushijima’s bare chest. Where it had been rising and falling steadily for the past few minutes, he can feel Ushijima taking a deep breath and holding it. 

“I would have disagreed with that myself five, six years ago just to have an explanation for how sickeningly good you were. You hardly ever make a mistake, but the truth is that we all struggle sometimes. Get used to it, genius.”

Ushijima has the audacity to look at him as if Oikawa had lost his damn mind.

“Accepting defeat is not an option. You know that as well as I do.”

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty head about that. I’ll make it an option for you soon enough, or rather an inevitability—we both know that you won’t dig my serve anytime soon. Either way, I’m not telling you to roll over and accept it. I’m telling you that at times you’ll have to go through trial and error to figure things out like the rest of us.”

Oikawa gives Ushijima a moment to mull this over while he continues examining the damage he’s done tonight. He’s in the middle of brushing his lips over the scratch marks he has left along the broad line of Ushijima’s shoulders, idly wondering whether they’re close enough to Ushijima’s neck to be visible past the collar of his jersey, when Ushijima speaks again.

“The new technique… I’ve been working on improving my form for over a month now but my success rate isn’t high enough to use it in an international competition. The coaches will lose their patience eventually. My team relies on me, I have to—”

“You have to relax,” Oikawa interrupts, slipping his hand between Ushijima’s legs and letting his fingers glide against the soft, sensitive skin there. “Back in the day, your old coach did an awfully good job at making your entire club’s success ride on one player’s shoulders. Are you an important asset to your team today? I think that much is obvious, but you won’t sink Team Japan because there’s one technique you aren’t acing on the first try.”

“There’s still plenty of time until the Olympics. If you can’t get it down by then, oh well. It’s not like those fools weren’t afraid you’d blow their heads off with your spikes before you started adding that new arm swing to your arsenal. Your team will have your back. Let them be your rock for a change and you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will,” he promises wisely, yet with an edge of impatience, then leans forward to press a quick peck to Ushijima’s lips, nipping any further argument in the bud. When Ushijima parts his lips to try anyway, Oikawa slips his tongue into his mouth and kisses him deeply. 

It’s wet and obscene like the glide of Ushijima’s fat shaft swelling in his fist, or his own left hand reaching behind himself, clumsily fingering at his hole.

“You know, I think I liked you better collared and starving for cock.” 

Still feeling raw and sensitive, Ushijima lets out a low, shuddering moan as Oikawa slowly lowers himself onto Ushijima’s length, savoring the burn of its large head forcing its way past his rim with his eyes closed, his expression a mixture of bliss, relief and untamed desire.

“Too bad it’s my turn to take  _ you _ for a ride.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are super appreciated and absolutely make my day! I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Feel free to yell at me about Ushioi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/OlKAWAT00RU). ♡


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